


Service

by ruff_ethereal



Series: Two To Get In Trouble [2]
Category: Descendants (2015)
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruff_ethereal/pseuds/ruff_ethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale about a knight, his loyalty to his queen, and the child they bore together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

It was a glorious new world, one of peace, one of order, one of prosperity for all—except for him.

Him, they took from his cell, where had been languishing for who knows how long. Him, they beat bloody after he fought and screamed, enraged by their accusations that he was not the loyal servant to the true queen that he knew that he was. Him, they tossed onto a boat, not quite packed in like sardines—they weren't _that_ cruel, they loved to say—but certainly like livestock, stashed away below deck on beds of hay and old mattresses, shivering in the cold or trying to huddle together for warmth with nothing but their ratty, old, and holey clothes to try to keep them warm.

Him, they banished from their new, glorious land of Auradon, and instead, placed him on the Isle of the Lost along with the rest of their “undesirables.”

He remembers his first day there. They shuffled them off the barges, uniformed men with vicious, gleaming weapons, ones they claimed were for their own safety, but ones he knew were to make sure that either they stayed in the Isle or they never had a chance to even try to escape back to Auradon.

Some of them leaped from the gangplanks, thinking they could somehow swim the vast distance between them to safety.

All of them quickly learned that the waters were infested with hungry crocodiles.

He was one of the first people out, among the strong; the claustrophobic; and the still proud, haughty, and demanding that they be let out from the stinking, filthy, and cramped ships they had been stuffed in and been sailing on for so long. He was one of the first to see the Isle of the Lost in all its “glamour”—already bleak, dark, and dank even on its first days when the brick buildings were all whole, the windows were not yet broken, and the roofs had yet to rust away and leak from so many holes. He remembered that about the only thing that hadn't changed since then was the weather:

Dim, cloudy, and always on the verge of raining, though when it would begin pouring buckets was always a mystery.

He looked at this place, to be his new “home,” where he belonged according to the land's new tyrant, and hatched a plan to fight his way back into the ship, to face those guards with his bare hands, to die by their sword or to the crocodiles in the water than to slowly rot and wither away in this new prison like he did his old cell.

Then, he found her once more, as radiant and as beautiful as he had remembered her, not so much a ray of sunshine through the clouds but a brilliant sun breaking dawn, a glimmering moon on a cloudless night, a glimmering diamond in this trash heap.

He staggered over to her, unsure if his eyes were deceiving him, or it was a cruel prank played by those wicked fairies across the sea, but determined to find out either way. He reached out to touch her, just to be sure, before he got a look so sharp, so powerful, so full of disgust that someone of his station would even think of doing such a thing, that he quickly realized it was her.

He quickly fell down on one knee before her. “Your majesty.” He whispered.

Queen Grimhilde kept on scowling at him. “Ugh, at least _someone_ remembers how things are supposed to be. Get up, and come to my aid, servant; it seems it will be a while yet that I'll be able to escape, and I want my brief stay to be as comfortable as it can possibly get.”

He got up, bowed again, and quickly started looking for supplies and amenities his queen was going to need. He didn't mind that she had not recognized him, that she had called him a servant, that she had not realized what he actually was. The only thing he cared about was that he was able to serve her again, and serve her he would.

Others quickly began to follow suit, weaklings, brutes, and the cunning seeking protection with the more terrifying and authoritative of them in exchange for service; some returned to their old masters and mistresses, while others still switched allegiances or swore their loyalties to someone for the first time in their lives.

There was a vicious confrontation when his queen and Maleficent locked eyes, cold stares, deep scowls, and unspoken threats that chilled the entire dock more than it already was, that made many run or duck for cover, and even caused the stalwart Auradonian guards to uneasily raise their weapons and shields, but he barely noticed it--

\--They were starting to unload supplies that the tyrant Beast had “generously” given them, and already the scavengers, the desperate, and the brutish were waiting to pounce on it and get the best or all of it for themselves.

And he couldn't have that—not when his queen deserved them more.

* * *

In his life before, he was a knight.

Once, he was an aimless youth given to violence, mischief, and avoiding school at all costs; a child his fellow villagers and parents always thought would grow up to be the new town drunk, a labourer pulling carts and carrying boxes in the marketplace, or dead in a ditch somewhere after a brawl gone wrong; a boy whose body grew and grew while his mind remained pitifully small, and whose belief in himself only shrank as the insults, the reminders, and willful ignorance continued.

And that he would have become, if he had not met her.

He had mourned for the first queen, his king's first love, but after seeing his new wife, the first queen was but a memory, to be fondly remembered, but nothing more. He remembered that day so clearly, the day of the second royal wedding in that reign, after the ceremony was over and his majesty alongside his beloved daughter were parading his new bride and her new stepmother to the people.

He came and stood in the crowds, towering over the heads of most everyone, a human bear amongst commoners, farms, and the odd aristocrat. He really didn't want to be there, and neither was anyone that happy to see him, really, but they were all there at the king's wish that every single one of his people see his new family, whole once more.

He was planning to cheer and bellow well wishes to the crowd as was to be polite, but as the carriage rumbled towards them and he finally saw the second queen's fabled beauty for himself, he found he was suddenly stolen of his ability to speak, and for the first time in memory, his heart skipped one of its massive, steady thumps.

Of course the royal family never noticed that he wasn't cheering—why would they care for one particularly tall, large face in a crowd of hundreds of thousands? And though none of their eyes ever met his, his gaze was firmly locked on his new queen until she disappeared from view.

It was at that moment that he decided he would do anything to become closer to her.

Oh, he knew his place: he knew that, barring a miracle or some great disaster that he would rather not have happen in the first place, he would never be able to marry her highness, let alone be her lover, or even be seen as anything but her lesser, a servant, a commoner. Besides that, he was aware that he was not the most attractive of men, cursed by this lumbering body; worsened by the elements, work, and time; and his lack of charm, guile, and wit the death blow.

But that did not deter him in the slightest. He left his village, packed up his meager belongings, made his way to the castle and banged on the door himself, begging for a job. Though they were always in need of more servants, his massive clumsy hands did not have the finesse necessary for the work; the cooks would not have him for the same reason; and the scribes, the accountants, and the advisers were right out.

He could fight, however, and fight he did.

He learned the ways of the knight, becoming a massive, awkward squire stuck with all the terrible jobs by day, struggling to learn as much as he could by night, oftentimes begging the more reluctant knights to teach him their ways and doing all manner of favours to get them to. His drunken swings turned to brutal, fast, and efficient strikes; his speech, while far from eloquent, could at least be straight and understood by all; and from the uncouth brute he was when he'd joined, he quickly turned into a disciplined, powerful, and loyal soldier.

He was not the most clever but he certainly was one of the strongest. He was far from charming but he was intimidating. He did not have guile or smarts to outwit, but he had strength to overpower and sheer determination to make sure he was the victor.

He served the king until his age had finally caught up with him and he joined his first wife in death. He served his queen until one day, she disappeared from the castle, never to be seen or heard from again until the Isle. He kept on serving her despite her apparent death (one he had always dismissed as a cruel untruth until he heard it from her highness herself), until one day, her stepdaughter and that prince came riding up the gates and proclaiming that she was the new queen.

Almost every single one of the servants proclaimed their allegiance to Snow White. Of the few that were loyal to Queen Grimhilde—the true queen—they were arrested, cowed into loyalty, or manipulated until they believed the lies.

Him? Him they beat into submission.

He knew it was a futile fight from the start when the captain himself came up to ask him, one last time, to forsake his queen and accept that murderess and her lover as his new mistress. He knew it was only a matter of time as many more of his former comrades kept joining the mass of bodies and violence. He knew it was all over when his passionate cries for loyalty to the true queen and the downfall of Snow White went unheard, and if they were, it only made them beat him harder.

He was put into a cell. No chains, but no escape, either. They gave him food, they gave him water, both decent and clean fare, along with a reminder that her “majesty” Snow White would always be ready to forgive him.

He trained in his cell, he ate the food and drank the water, and he always refused, in the back of his head planning his escape and how he would find his queen, expose Snow White for the witch and the murderess she was, and put the true ruler back on the throne—maybe even become her new king, if she would be so gracious and generous to him.

They kept telling him Queen Grimhilde was dead, but he never believed them. They said Snow White was dead after she disappeared into the woods, but look what happened: she was actually a witch, biding her time in secrecy, making her potions, drawing her hexes, growing her familiars, plotting the downfall of the queen and how she would manipulate and trick an entire kingdom into believing that she was the victim, she was the rightful ruler, that she deserved to live and the true queen deserved to die.

He never got the chance, and if he did, his attempts failed swiftly and brutally, but he never did stop believing, nor did he ever stop trying.

His queen needed him to rescue her, and he wasn't about to let her down.

* * *

The number of servants at his queen's command quickly disappeared, at first little by little, then in droves when it turned out that her highness did not get banished with riches nor the power to help make her servants' lives better alongside hers.

The castle quickly fell in disrepair from the elements, the lack of magic, and the lack of work and materials to keep it from crumbling into pieces.

The artwork, the tapestries, and the precious few valuables that had been transported with it to the Isle were quickly pawned off for money, necessities or food—in the first few months, the fast dwindling supplies that the tyrant Beast had provided, afterward, the stale, rotten, and spoiled leftovers from Auradon.

In short time, it was only him and his queen in the castle, two souls in a massive, decrepit castle slowly being taken over by nature and ruined by the elements, all shadows of their former selves.

Unlike all the others, he stayed, and he did everything in his power to stay useful. In spite of the difficulty, he learned how to cook, how to clean, how to mend, and though his highness always yelled at him for the always substandard results—sometimes his fault, sometimes that of the scarce resources on the Isle—he would always bow his head, apologize, and resolve to do a better job next time. On the occasion that some filthy scavengers would come by the castle hoping to pilfer something of worth, he would scare them off, beat up the more persistent ones, and make it so that they would return to tell terrible tales of the castle and its guardian until no one but the bravest or the most foolish dared to come near.

His queen never thanked him. She never recognized him, she never knew his name, and sometimes, it was as if she never knew he ever existed. On the rare occasion she did, she would always call him “servant” before snatching the offered items from his hands or his basket and went straight back to ignoring him until she had need of him once more.

He never minded—the way his queen would smile and glow, radiant as ever, was enough for him.

As the years went by, the requests quickly started morphing into but one item he simply, absolutely, must return with: beauty products. Lipstick, anti-aging creams, skin treatments, everything that came on those barges that the people of Auradon had used for beauty's sake, she absolutely _must_ have.

It was difficult to get them—even here on the Isle of the Lost, people still valued their make-up highly and were willing to pay (and sometimes, kill) for it—but he did not become a knight for nothing. He fought and won against other scavengers, he intimidated merchants trying to overcharge him, he kept a zealous eye on his haul, wary for snatchers and pickpockets attempting to come even within even a few feet of him.

But he never, absolutely _never_ stole—that would make him no better than the filthy, rotten lowlifes he was competing with.

She never directly asked him to say if she was beautiful. She never looked at him to find out if she found herself still beautiful. If she ever asked anyone, it would be her “magic mirror,” a phantom, an invisible relic to all but her, or a very, very, _very_ tiny sliver of its original self.

But, he never failed to remind her that she was beautiful.

Most days, she would smile proudly to herself and strut about with the same confidence and regal air she had always worn. Some days, she would suddenly throw a fit, tossing things about in the air, raging at the world, the Isle, and that tyrant, Beast, leaving him to quietly follow her, cleaning up the mess as she went. On the rare occasion, she would be so overcome by sadness, by dread, and by the toll of this hellhole that she would spend the night—even whole days—sobbing and wailing, tears streaming down her eyes, yet no less beautiful to him.

It was on those last days that he would never fail to dispense with whatever means he had to comfort her—perhaps one of the better used bags of tea they had in the cupboard, perhaps a relatively nice treat he could somehow whip into shape, or reminders about all the features and things that made her beautiful that for the moment, she could not see no remember.

Then, one day, she finally noticed him, threw herself on him, and the rest was a whirlwind of emotion, of passion, and of intimacy like he'd never experienced before. He held her, he kissed her, he touched her, all the while never forgetting to remind her over and over again just how beautiful she was. He focused all of his attention on her, made sure to notice every last tick, flinch, and reaction, and figure out to the best of his ability how to please her as much as he could. He didn't stop until she was lying in bed, exhausted and satisfied, and he was beside her, holding her close and whispering loving words into her ear.

Though he had little experiences or relationships to say it for certain, he was sure that he had formed a bond with his queen that night, one that went deeper than simple pleasure, one that made them so much closer than that of a monarch and her faithful servant.

The next morning, he was dismissed.

He did not question his queen's decision. Nor did he complain, nor did he beg for his position back, nor did he grumble while her back was turned. He simply packed up his bags, bade his queen farewell, and left the castle.

He did not stop serving her, however. He found whatever work he could (except for becoming one of Maleficent's much loathed minions), struggled, suffered, and starved if only it meant that he could afford some of the luxuries his queen loved so much, and rain or yet another gloomy day, he would return to that castle and leave the basket at her door.

On the rare occasion that he could catch a glimpse of his queen—maybe a little rounder, maybe with a tad more wrinkle lines, maybe with deeper eyebags than he remembered—he would smile at her, then whisper into the air how beautiful she was.

His devotion only grew when he found out she was with child. He did as any father should, and he provided for his family, even if he was bedding with rats and other unfortunate souls and not his queen and their future child, even if she never acknowledged his work once, even if he was certain that he would never be able to see his child, to hold her, or indeed, even let her know that he was her father.

He had worries that he might have to return to aid his queen when the strain proved too great for her, but as always, she showed herself to still be the powerful, regal monarch she once was, more than capable of taking care of herself with or without his help, and in spite of all the problems her pregnancy was no doubt causing her.

It was when the child was born—a beautiful baby girl—that he forced himself to stop.

He realized than in spite of all his best efforts, the queen could do better—she had power, she had authority, she had a sharp and wily tongue, while he was but a brute, and intimidation could only get you so far. He realized that being a tall, bulky, scraggly stranger that left gifts at their door was far from romantic nor would his daughter have very good memories of him if she caught him. And finally, he realized that it might be better off if she never knew he was her father, that he was never part of her life, that he left his queen to raise his daughter the way she wanted to without his interference—he knew she was more than capable of doing it.

So it was that he did the honourable thing and gracefully bowed out. If their daughter had ever known about his existence or found evidence of his once being a part of her home, his queen either never told her the answer or couldn't be bothered to remember him. She certainly never bothered to acknowledge him on the rare occasion that she passed him by while he was hard at work scrounging up a living for himself.

He did, however. As politely and as subtly as he could, he gazed on at his queen, marveling at her beauty. Then, he would look at his child, perfect in absolutely every way, none of his burly features, his skin and chocolate brown eyes, and all of her mother's beauty.

He would always be so overcome by love, pride, and affection, he couldn't help but stop and smile at her.

And when his queen wasn't so busy that pulling and leading her through the busy and often times thieving crowds, she would look at him and smile back.

It only ever happened occasionally—the heavy, inglorious work he was suited for always ended up far from the cosmetics barges or the relatively nice districts his queen and their daughter frequented. But the few times it happened never failed to brighten his day and make the perpetual gloom on the Isle seem a little less dank and depressing.

So his life went, doing menial jobs, earning rotten scraps to eat, with only passing views of his queen and their daughter to keep him going from day to day. It was far from the comfortable life he knew or wanted for himself, but it was enough.

And when he learned their child—Evie—was never coming back to the Isle of the Lost, alongside her three companions, he was devastated, but eventually realized he would have to content himself with all the wonderful memories of his daughter and the way she smiled at him.

… Then on one of his usual rounds looking for cargo to be hauled, rickshaws to be pulled, and shifty individuals looking for guards to defend them from violent individuals, he found an unusually large crowd gathered by the boards on the docks.

Fortunately, he loomed over the tops of many peoples heads and only needed to push aside just one or two folks from the back row so he could see the advertisement. The wood on the board was rotten from the elements and insects, but somehow, the beautifully printed advertisement from Auradon still managed to hang on perfectly straight and keep itself pinned on the board in spite of all the ruckus and chaos around it.

On the very top of it was bold, golden letters, spelling out a very attractive prospect indeed:

“Get off the Isle! Work in Auradon!”

Then, below that, in less eye-catching but still quite visible writing:

“If you can prove yourself honest, hardworking, and good.”

It seems Prince Ben's latest scheme to improve the lives of those on the Isle involved getting most of the minions and small-time criminals into honest work—mostly menial labour, really: cooks, construction workers, the odd job that involved face-to-face interaction with someone as a bartender, a waiter, or a receptionist. They were subdivided into numerous categories and boxes on the page depending on the skill level, the most numerous being the positions that you could have given a woodland creature if only all the customers had translators in their ears, the bar becoming higher and higher and the demands more numerous and strict as you got lower and lower down the list. Curious, he looked down at the very last offers, enclosed in yet another box, except this time, there was a familiar cracked crown logo on the corner. It read:

“Need 'Citizens' to live in Experimental Town”

As the final project for the Sustainable Urban Planning class, Lady Evie was making a small village with all of her ideas and designs incorporated in it. It would run almost entirely like an actual town—there'd be a small economy, scheduled social events, and people would actually live there—but it was also going to be assaulted constantly by all manner of disasters and problems to simulate actual problems in a city, like a torrential rain to test the drainage system, but also have a number of planned events like a town-wide fiesta, to simulate how well the garbage collection system worked.

“You'll be given food, lodging, and even a generous allowance to spend if you want to hang in an actual city or town, on the condition that you come back on curfew, you actually live in my town long enough for me to get the data I need, and you don't stage an uprising and take over the mayor or something else evil!” Lady Evie's reminder before the more technical details read.

Below that were a list of positions, among them, a “Captain of the Guard” to help maintain order and peace, “someone who is strong, someone who has authority, someone who has the bravery to face danger, step up when the going gets tough, and stand proud no matter what happens.”

He smiled to himself, and immediately memorized the details on how to apply and contact Lady Evie.

He knew he was a shoe-in—he was a knight, after all.


End file.
